Physical Impossibilities
by Fanatic-Fanatica
Summary: An incident in London leads to a drastic change in the Government. Then, without warning, CHERUB is under attack! The CHERUB agents, both young and old, must work together to save the organisation, or face the terrifying consequences.
1. Prologue

**October 19th, 2014**

Downing Street. The most secure street in the United Kingdom, perhaps even the world. Closed off to the public since the 1980's by former-Prime Minister Margeret Thatcher, the only people who now walk it are politicians, policemen and petitioners. These petitioners would be allowed limited access to Number 10, the PM's residence, to submit a petition for immediate review by the PM. They were often just pieces of nonsense, such as making cabbages illegal to consume or to make it obligatory to undergo voodoo, but sometimes, something meaningful got through.

13:46

The last group of petitioners was allowed through the gates of Downing Street. Among them, was a scruffy young man, a bright, yellow shirt adorning his seemingly weedy figure. Denim shorts showed his slender legs, a sheen of hair showing he had recently shaved them. His galsses were dirty though, caused by his unbelieveably greasy hair. His ridiculous attire was completed by sandals and a huge backpack. He had come dressed for a entirely different season, but here he was, wearing summerwear in late Autumn. No sunny October days here. The group of five gradually made their way to the doorstep of Number 10, the scruff trailing behind. A burly cop greeted them with a steely glare and knocked the door.

It ws opened by the greeter, professionally dressed, but friendly.

"Good Afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen," he said in a well-mannered, but obviously false tone, "The Prime Minister is due to leave in ten minutes, so if you would quickly come and sign your petitions please." He gave the scruff a gaze of dissapproval, but it was within his training and moral not to make any snide or sarcastic comments. The four better-dressed individuals signed their petition forms and one-by-one, handed them to the greeter, who accepted them graciously. Scruff however, was dawdling. He kept looking around, at the guards, places he shouldn't be rather than doing what he was supposed to be doing. He made eye contact with a bald bodyguard who kept staring him down, before stepping through a door.

As if on cue, Scruff cringed, his face contorting strangely. The greeter noticed, mystified until the man let out a shrill fart. Wide eye, he resisted the urge to retch. Another fart, this time audibly 'wetter'.

"Aw crap," Scruff groaned, "Ah can't 'old it in!" his cockney rang around the halls. He stared at the greeter pleadingly. The Greeter grimaced, but pointed to the door the bodyguard had walked through.

"Cheers Mate!" he said as another fart escaped his bowels, his 'ohhhh'-ing following him down the halls of the building. Everyone was looking on, horrified. It was hard to believe such disgusting people existed.

13:49

Scruff burst through the door and took a moment to look around, his urges suddenly gone. A small three-cubicle toiletroom. The bald guard stood at one of the urinals and he gazed blankly at Scruff. Scruff nodded in acknowledgement and took the only other urinal available. He turend his head and found the guard, still staring.

"Don't ya know it's rude t' stare mate?" Scruff glowered. Guard just kept staring, zipping his trousers up, before stepping away and making to leave. He never reached the door.

In a split second, Scruff tripped him up, turned around and slammed the guard into the floor, knocking him out cold. He had to work quickly. He ripped his pack from his shoulders, unzipping it as it fell silently to the floor. He pulled out the speaker system that had created the 'farts' and placed it on the floor carefully. He ripped off his wig, revealing his waxed scalp underneath, a perfect imitation of the floored bodyguard, blemishes and and scars all in the correct positions. He removed a suit identical to the guards and put it on over his original clothes. Taking the guards earpiece and putting it over his own, he dragged the unconcious man into a cubicle and sat him on the seat. He chucked the speakers into the bowl and switched them on via the remote on his wrist, before shutting the cubicle door and externally locking it with the penny slot. In less two minutes, Scruff was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he had transformed into the very man his superior had ordered him to obtain information about. To imitate him. To gain access to the most secure personal laptop in the country.

"Where have you been?" Prime Minister Cameron asked sternly.

"Sorry Sir. Didn't expect to take that long." The gloomy bodyguard responded. Cameron rolled his eyes, but didn't take the matter any further.

"Are those blasted petitioners gone yet?"

"No Sir. There's still one in the lavatory."

"What is he doing in there?" The bald guard grimaced.

"Something that ruddy stinks." Cameron returned the expression.

"Great! Now I've got to cope with that before I go."

"Beg pardon Sir?" Cameron didn't respond, instead, he glowered. The guard got the point.

"Keep that laptop in your sight. I don't want anyone going near it."

"You have my word, it won't be touched." The PM smiled as he stood.

"Good. I knew I could trust you Mike." He patted the guard's shoulder before walking out of the room into his personal WC. He felt kind of bad about for a split second, but quickly dismissed it. This man had wronged his superior and he would pay.

He sat down, taking out a 30 Terrabyte Intelligence Issue hard-drive and plugged it into a USB slot. The Drive's programming quickly installed itself, before it asked for instruction. There were just two options: Obliterate Data and Copy Data. The guard, actually the scruffy man chose the latter. Immediately, the Drive's instincts took over, finding all the standard computer operating files and removing them from the equation. It traced and located every file that had the word's 'Top Secret' or the likes and copied them into itself. The sophisticated device, whilst copying every national secret in the Prime Miniters Computer and external hard-drive's also made sure it couldn't be traced, erasing the fact it had ever been there from the operating files and history data, effectively resetting the machine. It took just 30 seconds to copy every single piece of sensitive information in that computer. Smirking, Scruff removed the Drive, pocketed it and stood up, briskly walking to the door and stepping into the corridor. The greeter was loitering outside the lavatory, waiting for the scruffy cockney man to exit. It didn't seem liekly to happen anytime soon however, seeing as there were very audible farts coming through the door. Unwatched and unbeknownst to every man in the building, the real Scruff was walking out the front door, towards the gates of Downing Street. Five minutes later, he had dissappeared into the throng of people.

"Minister," Scruff spoke into his phone, "It's done. I've found some _very_ interesting infomation. Read Eagle. I repeat, _Red Eagle_."

David Cameron looked at the cubicle in digust and curiosity. The PM had taken a few minutes to do his business, wash his hands and dry them, but the entire time, the man in the cubicle next to him had been farting and dropping clinkers. But it hadn't taken Cameron long to realise there was some sort of 'pattern' to it. Another fart. He _swore_ it sounding _exactly_ the same to one that had occured a minute or so ago. In fact, it was the same! This was a sheer impossibility.

"John, get in here." he called out. The greeter, John, entered the room.

"Yes Prime Minister?"

"Something isn't right here. There's no way that man can have been farting that much." John nodded in agreement.

"Shall I?" He asked, holding up the key to unlock the cubicles externally.

"Yes, but be careful," Cameron said as John set to work on the door, "I'll get Mike in here." The door clicked and it swung open, creaking on it's hinges. John took an involuntary step back in shock.

"That won't be necessary Prime Minister. He's already here."

**I know this will get a lot of flames and complaints and whatever, but it's a **_**story**_**. Forget the impossibilities of it and read. It's fiction for a reason, so stuff that doesn't happen in the real-world, can happen. :D**


	2. Chapter 1: Massacre

**October 25th, 2014**

_11:00am_

The Number 159 bus was packed. A busy Saturday, packed with shoppers, tourists and youths. Driver Francis Tate pulled away from the traffic lights, turning west to go over Westminster Bridge. The bus under control, a 1989 Leyland Titan double-decker, whined in protest as its aged engine was powered. Normally, Bus 1823 wouldn't be running. For much of the 2010's, she had been in storage, waiting for an overload of passengers. Whilst on this particular day there was good service and no need for extra buses, 1823 had been drafted in anyway after its more modern cousin mysteriously broke down. With no time to procure a similar bus from another depot, 1823 was given an outing, perhaps its last. Tate had no attachment to the vehicle: it was just another bus. But had he known what was about to happen to it, he may have thought differently.

A customer on the Bridge Bus-stop raised their hand, flagging the bus down. Tate stamped the brakes, ancient and barely oiled for the drive. They squealed as the leviathan came to rest and opened its doors. Five customers. A couple with their two young children and a rather burly man behind, his balding head and odd figure making him look ridiculous. As soon the doors opened he pushed past the family and stepped aboard the bus.

"Hey!" Tate protested, "They were before you! Get off the bus and wait until I'm done with them!" The man didn't move. Instead he reached into his jacket and fumbled around. Assuming he was going for his wallet, Tate got more annoyed by the insolent passenger, "Didn't you hear me?" Tate growled, "Get off the bus and wait for th-" he didn't finish his sentence. Staring him in the face was the snub nose of a short-barreled AKSU rifle.

"Not. Another. Word" The gunman emphasised, enciting a nod from the terrified bus driver. He turned around and pointed it discreetly at the family, "Make yourself scarce." he told them, dark tones emenating from him.

"Everybody!" Gunman announced, "If you want to still be alive in 20 seconds, you will get off this bus now!" Whispers went around the passengers. What was this idiot doing, holding up the bus for no reason? They got no answer, just another threat and it was no idle threat either. Unperturbed, the Gunman lifted his weapon and pumped a three-round burst into the ceiling. The racket was tremendous, echoing throughout the bus. A cry from upstairs meant someone had been hit.

"I meant NOW!" the Gunman screamed. No-one needed telling twice. Rushing to the doors, they pushed out, emptying the Titan in a matter of seconds. The Gunman returned his gaze and aim to Tate,

"You too." Tate could only raise his arms in surrender, clicked open the driver door and squeezed past the Gunman. Chuckling lightly, Gunman got into the driver's compartment and shut the two sets of doors. He fiddled with something under the steering wheel, fumbling with concealed lock panel. It eventually clicked open, revealing the button underneath. This was not standard equipment. The Gunman knew that. This entire day had been planned out, sabotaging the original bus, loading this one with the equipment necessary for the mission at hand, the escape, everything. Gunning the engine, Gunman released the Titan's handbrake and pulled away from the kerb, leaving the helpless passengers and driver on the side of the road. Bus 1823's final journey had begun.

Gunman didn't realise, however, that his entire escapade, had been under the watchful eyes of a certain law student.

Sergeant Steven Fowler stood guard outside Downing Street. The recent incident inside Number 10 meant security had been heightened. No petitioners had been allowed in and the guards who had been on duty at the time, had been suspended, seeing as they allowed the impostor to simply walk out without as much as a glance at him. Five City Policemen and 4 Politcal Soldiers were on duty, the policemen armed with tasers, the soldiers with SA80A2 assault rifles and Browning High-Power Pistols. They were readily able to repulse a small assault. They weren't prepared for what was coming.

Fowler heard a commotion in the distance, in the direction Richmond Terrace. Eagle-eyed, he peered out of the guard box and got a shock. Speeding down the Terrace, was red double-decker bus. It's engine was under obvious turmoil, whining as it was pushed beyond its designed limits. A car reversing out of its space, oblivious to the leviathan heading its way, was clipped, sending it spinning, striking another car parked a row or two away. Ths bus veered, but quickly corrected and kept on coming. Fowler immediately saw its intentions. There were no passengers on the top deck: it was coming to ram the gates of Downing Street!

"Take Cover!" Folwer bellowed as he dove back into the box. The other soldiers looked up and noticed the dilemma at hand, quickly diving out of the bus's path. The policemen followed suite, but one officer dawdled. He was too late to save himself and the bus ended up smashing into him, throwing his broken body to the side. The bus tore through the chained posts and a split second later, piled into the gates with an almighty crunch. The impact was so fierce, it lifted the rear end high off the ground and flung the rear windows open. The gates twisted, snapping but holding in place, causing the vehicle to lurch over to one side and crash down onto its right side. Wounded by the crash and shaken by the flow of nitrous oxide through its system, the Leyland's engine gave up the ghost, dying for the last time. Convinced it was over, Fowler creeped out of his box, rifle at the ready. The scene of devastation was something that belonged in a war-zone. 'There was no _way_ anyone could have survived that," he thought, lowering his weapon. The crash of glass told him otherwise.

Gunman smashed the front windscreen apart with his crash helmet, hidden on the bus when it had been modified for the task of bringing down the gates. The five-point seatbelt had also saved him from recieving otherwise fatal injuries. Snaping open the harness, he pushed himself out of the capsized seat, kicking the shattered windscreen as he went, busting it in one go. Throwing off the crash helmet and retrieveing his stowed AKS-74U, he jumped out belted it towards the front door of No.10.

The policeman guarding the entrance was entranced by the spectacle. He had never expected something so violent to happen. He also never expected the 5.45mm bullet that hurtled in-between his eyes. The Gunman wasted no time in inspecting the body. He ran full pelt at the door, slamming into it and breaking the hinges off the frame. A man who had been trying to lock the door flew back at the impact, falling flat on his arse. He groaned as he lifted himself up, his expensive suit in tatters. The Gunman pressed the cold metal of the AKS against the man forehead. The terrified man looked up and gawped in horror and recognition.

"YOU! The disgusting little man who-" The Greeter was cut short.

"Shut up you piece of posh cowshit." The Gunman, or the Scruff, pulled the trigger. The full force of the bullet made it fly straight through the Greeter's skull and out the side, embedding itself in the fancy flooring. The crack of the round being fired was muffled, but it only told the security guards what they needed to know. The door to the Prime Minister's office opened and three armed men stormed out to face the intruder. They didn't have the time to raise their Uzi's before the AKS spoke again, sending 5.45mm rounds slamming into their unprotected throats. He moved forward, AK raised to his shoulder. Swiftly, he walked through the door and grinned at the sight that lay before him.

Intel had been correct. The meeting the Prime Minister had called was today, in this very room. The entire leading cabinet was there, having been completely unfazed by the events of a few days before. And now they seemed to be regretting their decision to come. They could only stare in shock. The Defense Minister rose from his chair, trembling, but defiant. He gave the Gunman a glance, wetted his lips and spoke,

"You're SAS, aren't you?" The Gunman said nothing, but he grinned menacingly.

"You're not going to get an answer," He said gruffly, "And the rest of you aren't going to be answering any questions either."

Sergeant Fowler and his team made their way through the twisted insides of the bus, treading carefully on the crazed glass windows. The entry into the Titan had been difficult, but not impossible. The policemen had boosted them up through the opened lower-deck rear-window, leaving one soldier to cover the entrance.

"Give me a lift mate," Fowler ordered as they reached the stairs. A Corporal dutifully slung his rifle over his back and cupped his hands underneath Fowler's raised boot. The pair grunted as Steven pushed himself up the partition, steadying himself when he reached the top. A short jump put him right next to the driver's compartment. A chatter of machine-gun fire piereced the air, telling Fowler that his mission had failed. He stepped down from the partition, landing on the driver-side window and stepped through the broken windshield. He raised his rifle and aimed towards the door of No.10, his objective now to avenge the Prime Minister. He heard a chink of metal on metal and he assumed his team-mate outside the gates had pointed his gun-barrel through the gaps in the construction.

"Intruder!" shouted Fowler, "Intruder, drop your weapon and come out with your hands on your head. If you comply, we will not harm you." He was surprised when the assassin stepped out from the broken door of No.10, but of course, he had not dropped his AKS.

"Drop your weapons!" the Assassin called out, "And you will still be alive to see your families."

"Permission to open fire Sir!" the soldier outside of the gates bellowed. Fowler understood the irrational comment. He was angry. Angry he had failed his duty and being young, he wanted to bring the cause of his failure to justice. The assassin could be heard chuckling.

"You man! Do you have a family?" The soldier hesitated. Fowler signalled to him not to answer. But the soldier was young and naive, frustrated and he wanted to make his enemy livid.

"Yes Sir! I have three children from your Mother and five from your sister!" Fowler turned and glowered at the man. This wasn't the time to be making juvenile jokes. It certainly wasn't what the Assassin wanted to hear. His face contorted in anger.

"My sister is DEAD you insolent fool!" He lifted his weapon and emptied the second magazine. Many of the 5.45mm rounds went wild, pinging off fenceposts, crashing into walls or burying themselves into the bent bus. But there were some on target. One gashed his jugular vien, another crashed into his middle trigger knuckle shattered the ulna. The final set made his right eye and empty black space. He crumpled down, dead, his final thoughts of infinite regret. Fowler returned his gaze to the assassin, jaw gaping so wide, the Titanic would've had no trouble passing through. The shock he felt at that particular moment was his final feeling. Scruff pulled a pistol out of his belt and blind-fired at Fowler. By sheer chance, it passed squarely between Steven Fowler's teeth, going through his spinal cord like butter. As the second soldier fell down in a lifeless heap, the Gunman holstered the Glock without a hint of remorse. He calmly reloaded his AKS, though still blissfully aware of the remaining soldiers still insode the bus. His superior had expected them to come through the bus and had had the vehicle outfitted appropriately. All he needed to do was flick the switch inside the hem of his shirt. Except he had already done it.

The fire extinguisher inside the compartment behind the driver's seat exploded. It blew up with such force, that the forward axle broke off, bouncing on the tarmac on Downing Street. A brief burst of fire into the bus just to make sure and Scruff was on his radio.

"Minister, " he addressed as he waltzed up to the bus, "Threat's neutralized. The replacement should be more easily convinced, especially following today's... accident."

"Good Work Reed. Get to the getaway vehicle and make yourself scarce. Shoot anyone who gets in your way."

"Roger that Minister..." he paused mid sentence, "Ello ello ello. Looks like someone is already trying to." The smile in voice couldn't have been clearer. Because there, standing atop the top deck windows of the bus, SA80 assault rifle in hand and dressed for something completely different from combat, was a dark-haired man. His medium build didn't intimidate Reed one bit. Grinning wildly, Reed aimed his own weapon, "Shall we dance little boy?" he mocked.

"Let's just get this over with shall we?" announced Kyle Blueman.

**Forget all the glareingly obviously gimmicks and tell me: do you like it so far?**


	3. Chapter 2: Chase

Kyle was only 21 years old. His fairly slight physique made the SA80 look rather big for him. Reed, staring at him incredulously, began laughing deeply. Who was this brave citizen, trying to take over from soldiers?  
"You're brave little one," he shouted mockingly, "A single bullet will blow you to shreds!" Another deep, throaty laugh as he reared his head back, "What do you possibly think you can do to me?"  
Kyle shrugged, "Looks can be deceiving." Reed grinned at this. Of course they could, but in this case there was no chance.  
"Get out of my way!" he yelled, raising his weapon and aiming at Kyle's tactical error. The windows... Kyle hadn't realised he was standing on none of them. Barely noticing Kyle enter a firing stance, Reed emptied his magazine of three rounds. The aim couldn't have been better.

Kyle suddenly found himself with no surface underfoot. He fell painfully into the smoky top deck of the bus, crashing against the seats. With the obstruction removed, Reed pegged it, jumping into the lower deck, stepping over the bodies of soldiers, before crawling out through the open rear window. Immediately, the police officers started running towards him, stun guns at the ready. But he knew, realistically, they wouldn't risk it. They had no chance against him. Even if he wasn't wearing body armour, the many layers of clothing would stop the barbs from penetrating his skin and frying him.  
"Put the weapon down!" one of the policewomen called, "This is a taser, 50,000 volts!" Reed glanced over at her.  
"Yeah? Well this is an AKS-74, 30 rounds of 5.45mm ammunition. What are you gonna do to stop me bitch?" She didn't answer. Instead, she just fired her taser. The four charged barbs embedded themselves into the numerous layers of clothing over the armour, crackling uselessly against it. Reed looked down, shook his head and stepped back, pulling the barbs from his jacket.  
"Wrong choice." he hip-fired, spraying the WPC. There was no time to check if she had succumbed or not, but it had succeeded in removing the other officers as a threat. They stepped back as he began running towards his escape vehicle. Unlike what you'd see in movies, it wasn't a high-powered sports-car like a BMW or a Vauxhall Monaro, but a simple little Nissan Micra with a Domino's Pizza sign attached to it. About as inconspicuous as you can get. Powering away from the scene and towards the river, Reed grinned, his second time infiltrating Downing Street a complete success.

A shot rang out, the bullet whzzing past his ear. It took him completely by surprise.  
"You should've killed me!" Kyle shouted, having just emerged from the bus, "You knew I was armed and posed a danger, why didn't you just make me another corpse?" Reed wasn't going to answer. He fired a burst at Kyle, who expertly ducked away, before he aimed and fired another 5.56mm NATO round. It was dead on target, slamming into Reed's body-armour and winding him. When he didn't fall down, Kyle guessed he should've known. There was no point in taking another shot: Reed had got away. But at least he knew whereabouts he had gone.

Reed forced his way through the throng of people on the river-side road. He fired a burst into the air, sending tourists and Londoners screaming and running for cover. With his way clear, he could get away quickly and cleanly.  
"Look out, he's got a gun!" a woman screamed. Just his luck. A policeman, a big, tough looking one at that, seemed to appear out of nowhere. At their combined paces, there was no way Reed could avoid the PC. The officer ploughed into Reed, knocking him off balance and throwing him sideways through a shop window. He smashed into a wooden structure, sending it tumbling into identical structures. Groaning as he lifted himself off the floor, he momentarily noticed the works of art on their easel's that had been ruined by his unexpected entry. But his mind was switched to the angry shop-owner storming toward him.

"You idiot!" he screamed in an African accent, "All that work lost forever!" he picked up a pot of paint and lobbed it at Reed. He barely missed the toxic mixture and decided that the owner was a nuisance that needed to go away. His AKS had been misplaced, but he still had a Glock 21 in his holster, "I make you pay for hours of painting!" The livid shop-owner began to reach for a flick knife concealed in his pocket, but he never got to use it. Three shots rang out, piercing his chest and stopping him in his tracks. Choking and written with shock, he keeled over, crushing an easel.

"Murderer! Put the pistol away, or I will batter you!" Reed turned to the policeman, charging undeterred at his deadly foe. In the split-second it took him to raise his knight-stick, Reed had already leveled the pistol at the officers neck and pulled the trigger. In less than five seconds, Reed had sent two grown men to their deaths, choking on their own blood. He realised now, that this delay had allowed the unexpected hero to catch up. Reed now found himself face-to-face with an SA80 assault rifle, its dark haired wielder staring determinedly down the iron sights, but Reed's own Glock made it stalemate.

"Look's like we have a little dilemma boy." Reed smirked as he cocked the pistol, pulling back the hammer.  
"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Kyle said flatly. It took Reed a little while to work out, that the rifle wielder was looking past him. It would cost him.

"Hey dickhead!" Reed turned, too late to find the girl standing behind him with a baking tray ready to smash him. The impact crushed his jaws together, breaking out a couple of teeth. A kick from behind sent him to his knees, before a punch floored him. He moaned helplessly as the Glock was torn from his grip and he was rolled over, just as the girl kicked him squarely in the balls.  
"That's for my boyfriend you piece of shit!" She cried, ripping off her oven gloves as he moaned in pain, "I hope the devil likes eunuchs, because that's what you'll be when I'm done with you!" Reed's senses started to return after being thrown from his head. Police sirens were approaching, though still in the distance. His eye's told him the blonde girl had turned his Glock against him, whilst the other one still had the rifle barrel pressed against his forehead, both knelt down before him. He heard the girl speaking, but he was still a bit too cluttered to tell what she was saying.

"Oh come on, that was too easy!" Kyle exclaimed happily. He did't feel so happy when his captured foe grinned, "Don't think I'll get anything out of ya?" Kyle seethed, the anger getting to his head as he remembered what the pained man had done. HE grabbed the man's throat and squeezed it.  
"Why did you do it?" he snarled. The girl was just as angry.  
"Yeah! Why did you kill an innocent artist and a pig?"

Reed just laughed, "Is that what you think I did? You think I went through all the trouble of breaking down Downing Street to kill a misly painter and a stupid copper? Dumb blonde girl." He was rewarded with a slap.

"Just coz I'm blonde doesn't mean I'm stupid," she raged, an Australian accent now being revealed by her anger, "Asshole!" she finished. Kyle, however, knew exactly what Reed had done.

"Jesus Christ... you didn't just kill four soldiers and three cops. You killed The Prime Minister?" he said, sounding somewhat more shocked than he really was. He had already sussed it, but had momentarily forgotten by tunnel-visioning during the short-lived chase down the river-front. Reed smiled sadistically.  
"The one and only David Cameron! Not to mention pretty much all the Department Heads, ya know, like Intelligence, Health all that jazz." Now Kyle was curious. Not only was his CHERUB training kicking in, he wanted to know more about this guy's reasons.  
"Who are you?" Reed looked at him blankly.  
"Father fucking Christmas, that's who I am!" There was a thump and his face suddenly contorted in intense pain. Kyle pulled his rifle away, shocked. He then noticed the hilt of a flick knife embedded in the assassin's groin. He turned to the girl, incredulous.

"What the HELL are you doing?" he yelled.  
"Making him talk!" The girl growled, flicking her hair out of her eye's, "Alright tough guy. I'll ask you again: Who are you?"

"It's gonna... take more than just... a stab in the bollocks... to make me talk!" Reed spluttered defiantly. The girl smiled innocently, before grabbing the knife and yanking it towards his feet. The man screamed in agony.  
"Oops! I may have just given you a third ball... or at least half of one." She fluttered her eyelids, the sweet look making her seem like she was enjoying it.  
"Stemp," Reed groaned, clutching his bleeding bollocks, "Jonathan Reed Stemp. Corporal. SAS." Kyle was taken aback. He looked at the girl, stunned and was stunned even further when he recognised her. She lowered the Glock, loosening her handhold on it. Despite all the anguish he was going through, Reed knew he had to take Drastic Action. He snapped the Glock from the girl's grasp and turned on himself, pressing the muzzle up against his chin.

Reed spat furiously, "The Minister will have his way! This nation will become better!" Before Kyle could even register what was going on, Reed had pulled the trigger. A 9mm round exploded through the top of his head, showering the ceiling and surrounding area with blood. The two oppressors looked on in defeat. As police began clambering through the wrecked shop frontage, Kyle spoke up,

"Well Dana, that did not go as planned."

**For all my HTTYD Lone Warrior readers: SORRY! I have run out of ideas. I will be doing this for a while until I get some way of putting them down.**

**As for fellow CHERUB lovers: PLEASE tell me what you think of it.**


	4. Chapter 3: Aftermath

Dana Smith (officially Danielle Smith-McQueen) watched the bodies of Reed, the police-officer and her boyfriend being driven away in unmarked ambulances. Her gaunt look on her face belied the fact that she wasn't that sad. But Kyle knew she still had some feelings for the dead Ugandan as a lone tear streaked down her supple cheek.

"I'm sorry, Dana. For what happened. It shouldn't have happened like this. If only I was just a bit faster I could've-"

"Don't trouble yourself too much Kyle," Dana interrupted, "It was falling apart anyway." Kyle was shocked by this adverse lack of feeling. Of course, most of the time he'd known her, she had been grumpy. The only times he'd seen her in any other mood was when James was missing in Russia (worried, but hopeful) and when she was going out with James. She must've at least _partially_ enjoyed living with the late artist, but it didn't show. But he thought he knew the problem.

"I trust he was happy with being with you, yeah?" Dana nodded, smirking slyly.

"We had some great sex. Smoked a ton of weed. Had so many great times. But..." she paused in thought, her face falling.

"But what?" Kyle pressured.

"I dunno. It just felt like, it wasn't meant to be. Like I had to leave him for someone else, but I didn't know who."

"Like you knew that, despite whatever feelings you had for him, no matter how strong, you knew were going to have to leave him?" She looked at him, surprised.

"Yeah. That's pretty much how it felt." Kyle nodded solemnly. He knew the feeling.

"When I had my first boyfriend," he began, "I felt like I had met my match. Hell, I loved him to bits. I seriously thought about running off with him. But he taught me the harsh reality of CHERUB without even realising it. He betrayed me, broke my heart. It told me never get too into someone you meet on a mission and that at some point, you have to leave them," he looked up at Dana, who had sat beside him on the workbench, "I'm no longer in CHERUB now, of course. I've met another man, the perfect guy for me. But a little voice at the back of my head keeps saying _'Don't get too involved, you know you have to leave him someday.'_ I know I don't have to, but it's limiting me. It may ruin the relationship.

'I guess that's what was happening between him and you. That little voice telling you to go no further."

Dana looked sadder now, fresh tears rolling down her skin, "Hard to think that CHERUB saved us, but is also destroying us." she sobbed. He pulled her into a hug. BAck on CHERUB, the two hadn't really got along, not even when she was with James. But know was a hard time for her and the rest of Britain. Her boyfriend had been viciously killed and not only that, several families would be getting a knock on the door from a policeman or an Army Officer. It couldn't hurt to show a little compassion.

"You two." one of the policemen called into the premises, "Someone here to question you. Secret Service. He's requested to see you in one of the vans." Dana straightened herself up, wiping her bloodshot eyes. The pair of CHERUB's stood up and walked carefully towards the shopfront. One of the officers escorted them to a van, opened the door and ushered them into the dark back of the policevan. As soon as he shut the door behind him, the interior lights flickered on. A familiar face sat in one of the seats. Kyle and Dana's eyes widened when they saw who it was.

"Mac!" they cried. The aging former chairman was happy to accept hugs from them, but he had to tell them to be quiet.

"This van isn't exactly soundproof you know," he pointed out, "But I am glad to see you too. Now sit down. Although I'm not in the Secret Service, one thing the officer did get right was that I have to ask some questions. I've been drafted in to ask you, because the police want to take you in for messing with their affairs. First, I have to turn on this," he produced a recording device and laid it on the bench beside him, "Now then. Kyle. Where were you when all this started?" Kyle thought for a second.

"Hang on. Don't you want to know the important stuff first? Like, who the killer was?"

"Please Kyle, it's procedure. I don't make the rules, I just work here." Kyle hurrumphed, but procedure was procedure.

"I was in London to meet a friend. Walking down Westminster Bridge to get to the Eye, I saw this guy force himself onto a bus. Moments later, there was a crackle of gunfire and the bus emptied of passengers, with only one injury. I see him holding an AK of some sort, wtahcing as the passengers got off. He then drives the bus away and I can't help thinking what he's up to. I mean, why hijack a bus but make the passengers get off? It didn't make sense. He didn't seem like some crack-head with a Kalashnikov who decided he wanted to drive a bus, he was too methodical. So I ran after it. His crazy driving meant I could cross the road and follow it. It took me a while but when I reached Richmond Terrace, I looked down the road and saw the bus just embedded in the gates of Downing Street. I could hear gunfire and explosions. I ran up and noticed the dead soldiers inside and outside the vehicle. I did the first thing that came to my mind. I grabbed one of the dead soldier's rifles and challenged the gunman. The police did nothing to stop me, but needless to say, I decided to stand on one of the upturned buses windows and he shot it out with his AK. By the time I came to my senses again, he was outside the gates and had killed another person... umm a policewoman I think.

'I couldn't just let him run away. I jumped out and shot at him. I should've known he had armour on, but I spent too long dawdling and he got out of sight."

"And then what?" pressured Mac. Kyle cleared his throat and continued,

"I ran after him. He was running North up the river front from the Terrace. Next thing I know, there's a crash of glass, people shouting and then more gunshots. He was there standing above two more bodies in the art studio he had been thrown into. We faced off, but neither of us could do anything without the other doing the same. I then noticed behind the killer, that Dana Smith, who at the time I didn't know who she was, had appeared at the back of the room, wearing mitts and holding a cooking tray with some sort of pudding on top (not that that's relevant). She took him by surprise somewhat and we took him down, turning his pistol against him. Then we questioned him."

"What did you ask?"

"Well at first he wouldn't talk. But Dana made him. Stabbed him in the balls," he smiled grimly, remembering the satisfaction on her face, "He gave his name and who he worked for quite readily and confirmed what I had suspected when I saw that bus stuck in the gates."

"Who was he Kyle?" Mac asked in anticipation.

Before Kyle could speak, Dana answered for him, "He said his name was Jonathan Reed Stemp. A Corporal in the SAS." Mac's eyes widened.

"SAS? You mean the Special Air Service?" Kyle shrugged.

"Sounds like it." Mac mulled this over, thinking.

"What on Earth was an SAS trooper doing, assassinating almost every Ministeral Head?"

"Beats us."

"Wait a minute, _almost_ every?" Kyle asked in doubt. Mac nodded.

"The Ministers of Transport, Education and most importantly, Intelligence, have all survived, though they are all in critical condition."

"The Prime Minister?" The old scotsman bit his lower lip.

"Both David Cameron and Nick Clegg were... turned into colanders, shall we say," he shuddered at the image his mind made-up, but he knew it wasn't really that bad. He turned to Dana and felt a pang of guilt when he saw her reddened face, "Dana? I believe your side of the story matches up with Kyle's, yes?"

"Yeah," she sniffed, "From the point where Reed crashed into the gallery is pretty much how it went."

"Now Kyle," Mac continued, "Quite a few of the senior police chiefs want you reprimanded for aking the law into your own hands," Kyle looked down at his feet, "However, the man in charge of the unit of soldiers that was on duty has commended you for your actions and your eventual take-down of the killer. He would like to give you a medal for taking the initiative and attempting to avenge his men.," Kyle looked up, eyes wide,

'But he can't," Kyle's face fell, "But he did say he will give you something. He wants to tell you in person." Once again, Kyle lit up at the prospect of reward, despite the dire situation. He had no idea how the government would cope with the power vacuum.

"There isn't much else to say. MI5 will be taking steps to make sure you are not mentioned, but we have to let some things out. Do you two have any questions?" The pair shook their heads, "Then I shall leave you. The van will take you to a location of your choosing. Chin up! Everything's alright now." With that, Mac got up and stepped out of the van. Moments later, the driver got in and slid open the grate that seperated the front and rear compartments.

"Where to?" They both gave directions to friends houses. Halfway through the journey, Dana fell asleep, seemingly exhausted. But Kyle noted the constant stream of tears. It was a completely different side to Dana, one that he was sure very few people had ever seen. For once, he felt like she had a soul.

_*NEWS FLASH*_

_Turmoil in Great Britain: Mass Assassination brings Coalition Government to its Knees._

_Brit Prime Minister killed in ruthless attack._

_Mein Gott! Unsere Mitarbeiter sind gefallen!_

_Rosbif Premier ministre assassiné._

_The United Kingdom today, is in political anguish following an unexpected attack on Downing Street left much of the ConDem coalition government in tatters. Prime Minister David Cameron and his Deputy, Nick Clegg, not to mention nearly every head of department, have been killed by a lone gunman. The attack comes only a week after an infiltrator stole sensitive information. The Labour Party, Conservative and the Liberal Democrats direct competition has also been hit hard. Whilst this damage is only psychological, it has refused offers to replace the PM with Leader Ed Miliband under fears that he too will be assassinated in a matter of time. With no direct line of ascension, the House of Lords have taken emergency action and installed a temporary leader, a comparative Conservative 'nobody' by the name of Samuel Kendrick. Much of the British public feel he was installed because 'no-one would miss him' if he too were to be killed._

_Information regarding the gunman is limited, seeing as the British Intellignce agency MI5 is restricting Media coverage. Howvere, rumour has it that the killer was a rogue soldier, possibly SAS. What is established as true, is that the gunman was killed, probably by suicide just minutes later. This was sadly, a few minutes too long for the unfortunate families of the four soldiers and three police officers who were gunned down during the man's rampage. We will bring your more news on this event as it comes._

**Well, its not as long, but don't expect them all to be upwards of 2,000 words.**


	5. News

**Hi guys.**

_Lone Warrior News_

**I have to admit, I have not progressed with this story much further. Unfortunately, my interests in HTTYD have waned considerably, but I am still hoping to continue this story. To show you I still care about you, I am putting together a sneak-peek at one of the idea's for a later chapter, though it is still far from being implemented into the story yet.**

**The upcoming 'proper' chapter will also be the last to implement the 1st person narrative format. I believe it is the main cause for my inability to continue this story.**

_Physical Impossibilities News_

**Ah yes, my CHERUB fanfic. Guess what? Lost interest. This is the story of my fucking life guys...**

_Sisterly Bonds News_

**The next chapter is coming along slowly. I've been watching the hell out of Evangelion. Don't worry, tonight is the last one I'll be watching for a while, at least until the english dub for Evangelion 3.0 comes out. But not even NGE can stop my love of TANKS!**

_SpinnyTrek News_

**Ehhhhh, there is none. Lost Interest... again.**

_The Time of Sorrow News_

**Recently been watching a bit of B5, so I might begin putting this one together again.**


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